Beautiful
by Fayola
Summary: He doesn't understand his partner's ardent fascination with them. They are ugly, horrific things, his scars, and he longs to be rid of them more than anything else in this or any other galaxy.


Title: Beautiful  
Verse: G1  
Rating: M  
Warnings: (mild) scar worship/kink, implied (past) rape, emotional porn, run-on sentences galore  
Notes: I am of the personal belief that beneath the arrogance, beneath the violence, beneath all the bravado and anger and defiance, Sunstreaker just needs a big fucking hug. He has a pretty crappy past and has been through a lot, and maybe he only likes to show that to people who blow his circu- er, really get to know him.

But anyways. This was supposed to be a response to a prompt of the AnonKinkMeme on LJ (from like A MILLION YEARS AGO), which called for scar worship/kink, but instead of churning out any good wank material, Sunstreaker had to get all EMOTIONAL AND FEELY. What a dick.

I have no idea who Sunstreaker's partner is. He wouldn't tell me before I started writing. I went at it anyways, hoping he would become less shy as I went, but no such luck. Envision whom you will.

Also, shameless author shamelessly ganked the character Clench from the TFwiki. He had canon ties to the Gladiator Pits, and he seemed like a big enough asshole in his profile. My apologies if he's not actually a violent-rapist-flavored asshole IRL.

* * *

He doesn't understand his partner's ardent fascination with them. They are ugly, horrific things, his scars, and he longs to be rid of them more than anything else in this or any other galaxy.

He despises looking in the mirror each morning. Immaculately maintained paintjobs and religious waxings are not enough to hide the puckered solder that never seems to sand smooth, the difference in density and texture between his original plating and donated replacement grafts, the warped and uneven surfaces that no amount of cosmetic care will level.

At least, not to his artist's optic. Others lack his keen attention to detail and won't often see the glaring imperfections. But he sees them all – every last deeply ingrained one – and he _hates_ them.

"What about this one?"

Though this does not stop him from arching gracefully off the mesh surface of the berth he is sprawled across, helm twisting back and mouthplates parting in a silent gasp as nimble fingers ghost down the length of a razor-straight weld on his stomach, just above his right hip joint. Hot air wafts from the speaker's intakes, curling about the helm fin that is being nuzzled by impossibly soft lips, and Sunstreaker shivers.

"Energy spear," he grunts. He does not need to specify where he received the wound; his lover can always tell – through tone of voice or number of words or whatever other damn mind tricks the other has in abundance and uses mercilessly to worm his way into the golden warrior's thoughts – when he speaks of the gladiator pits. "Fragger was gloating. Didn't want to kill me right away when he thought he'd beat me, just pinned me to the ground to watch me squirm."

Those silken lips leave a trail of butterfly kisses along Sunstreaker's jaw and down his neck, latching onto a cable there and sucking. The warrior writhes, optics flickering, and arches again – his gasp is audible this time – as dental plates replace teasing glossa and bite down _just right_. Clever fingers are ready to take advantage of the trap they set, and they eagerly delve into the gap between berth and back plating as soon as it is formed, homing in on the identical long-healed wound and trace it softly as they did its mirror on Sunstreaker's front.

The Lamborghini tries to slump back onto the berth, but a supporting arm slips around his waist and, with a soft metallic whisper of plating on plating and the smooth whirring of servos, he is held in the elegant arc, pressed to the warm being that is suddenly above him.

The full-bodied contact, the broadest he has been given during the last half-joor of his lover's self indulgence, is as close to heaven as his desire-fogged thought processers can ever remember feeling. He moans softly and wraps his arms about the other's neck, forgetting he is pretending to be irritated. He does not have to guide his tormentor's helm down – his lips are swallowed up in a heavy kiss before he has a chance to institute one.

"And this one?" he is prompted lowly when their glossas detangle a drawn-out minute later.

Sunstreaker has to take a moment to let the static recede from his vision and CPU. A harsh nip to his lower lip, followed closely by the swipe of a slick glossa, helps to clear the fuzz. He curses his partner dynamically – how _dare_ he manage to still sound so composed while he, Sunstreaker, is feeling so embarrassingly virginal and overwhelmed! – but it only makes the other mech smile and scratch his fingertips across the patch of rough plating on the back of the frontliner's left thigh before massaging it once again.

"That glitch-head Skywarp," Sunstreaker grumbles. He scowls at the memory, but the attentive digits tracing over every tiny bump and dip and rise of the slightly warped section of armor wring from him a shudder of delight. Another calculated scrape of fingertips across the hypersensitive, sensor-damaged plating makes him throw his helm back and give a hoarse cry.

"K-Kicked me away during Jet Judo," he stutters. He wraps his legs about a trim waist, but the delicious torture does not cease. His lover reaches behind himself and continues to assault the spot, simultaneously entertaining himself with Sunstreaker's chest armor, the hot glossa making it all the harder for the warrior to continue, "Ha-AAA – mmf, had his thrusters going… s-so hot it made my plating bubble."

There is a responsive hum, low and deep. "Gruesome."

The way he is being caressed and stroked and kissed – all with such intense love it makes Sunstreaker's spark _burn_ for the blistering passion of it – tells the frontliner it is the process of receiving the injury that is being referenced and NOT him, NOT his flaws, NOT his forever-marred looks, but his cry of pleasure at the delicious vibrations that are rippling through his chest armor is still tainted by a half sob.

Velvet lips are suddenly on his, a blessed silencer to any further mortifying cries. The force with which Sunstreaker responds has the other mech clutching tightly at his plating, shuddering above him, and when he pulls away, his optics are too bright and his cooling fans are whirling furiously.

Sunstreaker digs his fingers into a seam and yanks him back down – or tries to, at least. He groans when his non-verbal command is ignored, but a quick grind of pelvic plating and sharp tweak to one of his helm fins keep him from becoming too disappointed. And his partner, benevolent as always, is already kissing and licking the panel housing his interface array when his helm stops spinning a few seconds later.

Good. Sunstreaker hates begging.

He groans again in anticipation, a sound equal parts desire and dread. He offlines his optics, handsome faceplates twisting into an agonized grimace as his lower half bucks upwards.

"And this one?" comes the soft murmur, almost a whisper, as it always does when his lover gets in these moods – these Primus-damned sappy, self-indulgent moods that for some reason make the nice rough 'facing Sunstreaker craves and only his beloved can give not satisfying enough.

Lips trace the scars instead of fingers this time, and Sunstreaker marvels for the millionth time at how _soft_ they are. So gentle and perfect and smooth, seemingly more so than usual as they brush so tenderly along the jagged lines across his interface panel that can still be felt in spite of all the buffing and waxing and paint and mental suppression.

He knows overload won't come if he doesn't say it – not when his sadistic bastard of a mate is such a _sadistic fragging glitch of a bastard_ and has spent so many long nights over the vorns worming his way through Sunstreaker's mental barriers like only he can to get him to the point where he _can_ say the name, even when he doesn't want to. Like now. But sneaky fingers dig deeper into the circuitry in his side, and a glossa dips into seams in his hips and around his panel, and he wants to feel his lover more than he doesn't want to say that slagger's name.

"Nngh… Clench," he forces out through gritted dental plates.

The explanation is left at that. The story has already before been told. Just the name is enough.

Sunstreaker moans as he hears the tell-tale click of an interface panel unlocking. His own opens a bare astrosecond later. The hand shoved in his side seam extracts itself, tugging at wires along the way and sending the most exquisite of misfires juddering through the golden mech, and grips his interface cable. Optics still dark, Sunstreaker jolts at the initial contact, then throws his helm back and snarls in pleasure as a thumb swipes across the jack. When the digit dips in to press against the connecting pins with enough force to almost hurt, Sunstreaker almost gives in this time and begs, but he is just able to turn his pitiful _please_ into a choked sob.

"You're so beautiful," a sweet voice croons against his audio.

Optics flare online, but Sunstreaker turns his helm away and mutters to the berth, "I'm not -"

"You _are_ ," a firm hiss cuts him off.

He doesn't get a chance to argue back. He tries, of course, but lip components descend on his with a bruising force and staggering passion, and it's all he can do to blindly find the solid force behind his pleasurable torture and cling to whatever bits of armor he finds for all he's worth.

Sunstreaker keens, the noise muffled by the glossa that is once more claiming him, and arches up, pleading silently. There is no resistance this time. Cables are connected to responding ports, and two bodies fall willingly into each other, twisting and writhing and gasping respective designations. A few bare minutes of shared energy and emotions and bursts of sensory information are all that is needed to neatly wrap up a torturously long session of touches and caresses and whispered words and bring it to a glorious conclusion.

As he slowly descends from his high, Sunstreaker is vaguely aware of his own name being whispered into his audios. He is only able to mumble sleepily in response, but that is apparently enough.

"Beautiful… you're so beautiful…"

And, for the brief moment more he is able to cling to consciousness, Sunstreaker believes him.


End file.
